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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24521134">Bona to Vada</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietwandering/pseuds/quietwandering'>quietwandering</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Morrissey (Musician) - Fandom, The Smiths</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:28:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24521134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietwandering/pseuds/quietwandering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Piccadilly Palare<br/>Was just silly slang<br/>Between me and the boys in my gang</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Johnny Marr/Morrissey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bona to Vada</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Amazingly, I wrote all this and am still not sure I'm entirely happy with it. This leaned way more into being a Smiths AU than what I intended. I had wanted more Johnny being sucked into the seedy nightlife of Manchester, meeting Moz in some dark underpass, but instead -- this fic happened. So I may write another one more in line with that at some point, we'll see. </p><p>More editing to be done when I'm not dead tired. </p><p>Title is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SOdoJWzxDJE">Piccadilly Palare</a> by Morrissey</p><p>  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polari#Polari_glossary">Polari glossary</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Like most disenfranchised Mancunian youth, I spent most of my time between gigs and work at seedy nightclubs that thrived in the rundown streets of our neighborhood. My home had steadily become the Haçienda where I could sit for long hours with Andy and some other mates, stealing drinks that I couldn’t otherwise afford. The time I spent sober, wondering where my life was headed, were hours I strove to drown out.</p><p>I’d grown to accept that maybe I wasn’t going to make my band work, that I'd stay at the register of a clothes shop until middle age took me into a depression I’d not be able to recover from. I’d escape my painfully average life with a decent looking corpse at best with only a few old demo cassettes lying around, reminding me that I was never good enough. </p><p>“Johnny! Hello??" Andy was looking at me with an annoyed expression which meant I'd zoned out again. "Listen, mate. I think we still got a shot at playing that Ritz gig, right? Simon might be all wishy washy on it, but I’m sure we can find someone to fill in if he splits.” </p><p>I tried to nod along, be interested, but I got distracted when I saw an effete man with an alarmingly high coif standing by the bar. He had a bored expression on his face with a brightly colored drink in his hand, wearing what might’ve been outrageous on anyone else: a loose red lycra shirt that tantalizingly fell off one shoulder, unreasonably tight black trousers and silver platform boots. He was the very picture of indecency. The strobe lights reflected off the strings of pearls roped around his neck, stark white against his milky pale skin. </p><p>“<em>Hello</em>? God, Johnny. C'mon.” Andy snapped his fingers in front of my face, and I dragged my eyes away from the man to look at him. He looked ready to strangle me. “Are you going to be able to pick me up tomorrow for work or not?” </p><p>“I still don’t have my license,” I replied. I wasn't sure why I'd mentioned that. It'd never stopped me before, that was for sure. I just couldn't think of anything else to say. Andy gave me a long stare that meant he trying to decide if he wanted to argue with me about it or not. </p><p>"Alright, I’ll see if my brother can come by before his shift. You feelin’ alright?” </p><p>“Yeah, just tired, I guess.” My eyes went back to the bar - the effete man had his arms around another guy now. The two of them were sharing knowing smiles and intimate touches, hips rocking a little to the music. I felt an unreasonable pang of jealousy eat at my insides - but of course someone like that would already be taken. Fuck. </p><p>/</p><p>At first, I tried to avoid going back to the Haçienda, tried to put the guy out of my mind completely, but I had to drag myself back only a few days later when Andy threatened to smash my guitar. There was never any sign of the man at the bar though, and I felt a crushing sense of disappointment about it for seemingly no reason. It was like I was somehow predestined to have met this guy, but I'd fucked it all up - just like always. I had just sat and watched him feel up this other dude until they'd left, probably to go fuck each other in the alley or something. </p><p>I dealt with it as best I could. My Gretsch acoustic kept my hands busy. Copious amounts of cheap whiskey stopped my thoughts from wandering. Shrooms put me in a calming stupor until Andy would come knocking impatiently at my door, shouting about me missing band practice again. I thought to ask my mates about the guy but clearly he wasn’t a regular at the Haçienda - so they definitely wouldn't know him. Some nights, when I was especially pissed, I'd wander from pub to pub to try and find him. Not that I knew what I’d say if I did. ‘<em>Hey. Saw you at the Haçienda several weeks back. I really want to be friends, maybe even more than that.</em> <em>Do you feel like we were meant to know each other? That's weird, right?</em>’</p><p>Then I finally got a break. The man had come back to the Haçienda all on his own. He was stood by the bar again in a sheer blue blouse with ripped jeans - they were baggier than I would’ve imagined someone like him to wear. He also had on a near infinite amount of jewelry: an assortment of thin gold chains, lockets, heavy bracelets, rings of all kinds. I was absolutely mesmerized that it all seemed to work together so well - not a thing looked out of place.</p><p>I pushed out of the booth with shaky knees, letting Andy know I’d be back in a minute, and hurriedly walked over. There was already a man next to him, not the same guy as last time if memory served, but I wouldn't lose my chance, not again. I pushed through towards the bar and forcefully jostled in behind the man, shouting for the barkeep. </p><p>The man swung around to glower down at me, absolutely incensed. He looked even more beautiful up close, I realized, with icy blue eyes and a deep cupid's bow etched into his lips. “Excuse you. There’s plenty of room.”</p><p>“Sorry 'bout that,” I said without looking up, pulling a fag between my lips. I briefly patted at my pockets before I realized my lighter was with Andy. “Gotta light?” </p><p>"Oh, piss off! If you're gonna hook up with another bloke right in front of me you can get bent. Have fun with him, you cocksucker." The guy who'd been here before me gave me a withering glare and stomped away, cursing as he went. I watched him go, feeling pretty pleased I had the man all to myself now - only to realize he was staring down at me with a immensely dissatisfied look on his face.</p><p>Okay, not a great start then, but I wasn't easily deterred.</p><p>“Well, now you owe me at least fifty quid.” I tried to ask what that meant, but I was cut off before I had the chance. I found I didn't mind too much - his voice was sublime. Soft, a little posh. I only wished the terrible techno was turned a little so I could hear him better. “I’ll start with you ordering me a drink. Vodka tonic please.” </p><p>“Uh, well. I’m Johnny Marr, at least...that’s what I’m going by now. Nice to meet you.” </p><p>“Queen of England, lovely to make your acquaintance. Now, that drink you owe me,” the man said staunchly.</p><p>I pulled a tenner out of my wallet and sat it on the bar, ordering a shot for myself and the drink requested “Do you work here at the bar? What do you do? I don’t see you round often,” I said as I smoothed back my hair. The pomade never held in the blistering heat of the Haçienda.</p><p>The man blinked at me, incredulous, and I couldn’t figure out what I’d said wrong. “You seem a little young for the rozzer, don’t you?” I’d no idea what that meant, either, and it didn’t seem like an explanation was forthcoming. I snapped a match out of a spare pack I’d found near my elbow and tried to think of a way to ask. “Though you’re a dish to be sure. Scarper off now. I’ll call on you another time, feele omi.”</p><p>The man sipped his drink and waved his hand at me in a rather camp way, eyes roving round the club. I couldn't give up - I wouldn't. Whether by divine intervention or by chance, I had been given another opportunity to know him. I couldn't fuck this up, not again. “Uh...I work at X-Clothes -- by Crazy Face?” We didn’t sell much in the way of what he was wearing, but I had no doubt I could find a few things he’d look good in. “I, uh -- guess I can pay you back there if you want to stop by sometime?” </p><p>Those electric blue eyes paused on me for a moment, hypnotic in the strobe lights, and my stomach tightened at the man’s slow, coy smile. “Alright then, feele omi. Bona nochy for now. We'll see each other again soon.” </p><p>/ </p><p>For the first time since I’d bothered getting a job, I made the effort of showing up on time. I found myself at the register every morning with an armful of records to make sure the store was always playing acceptable music instead of the dredge of the Top Ten on loop. Part of me thought I’d not see the man again, that I’d completely lost my mind (as if that was ever in question), but I still had that unshakable sense that there was a connection between us. </p><p>The first two weeks were a bust, but as I was skimming through an old NME I was interrupted by a rather soft <em> ahem </em> that had me looking up in surprise. I’d not heard anyone come in. “Hello, Johnny. I’ve come to collect.” The man gave me an awkward wave, and I smiled back excitedly, admiring his floral button up and dark, heavy overcoat. </p><p>I walked out from behind the counter and tried to think of an excuse to be pressed against him again like I had been at the bar. Nothing came to mind so I offered a handshake instead, no doubt holding on longer than was strictly necessary. “Hi, uh...sorry. You didn’t give me your name before.” </p><p>The man shrugged and pulled at the tall tufts of his hair once I’d finally let him go. “Steven Morrissey, but please call me Morrissey. I hate Steven.” </p><p>“Sure,” I said, leaning against the till. “We’ve got some new stuff in today from London, if you’d like a look. I brought some of the stuff down myself.” </p><p>“Well, you’ve quite bona drag so I’m sure I won’t be disappointed.” </p><p>I nodded, still puzzled by the odd things he said, and took him back towards the racks that showed off our newer acquisitions. We talked for a long while about the merits of flared collars and pipe legged trousers before I saw him looking towards one of the speakers. “Hard to imagine a place like this playing the Shangri-Las.” </p><p>“Yeah? They’re my own records. I’ve been a fan of them for a while.” </p><p>Morrissey laughed and pulled at the rows of safety pins on one of the leather jackets, smiling. “What else do you like, fortuni?” </p><p>“The Marvelettes, The Crystals...I’m in a bit of a girl group phase right now,” I said nervously, “but I’m otherwise listening to T. Rex or the Stooges.” </p><p>“Oh! Marc Bolan.” Morrissey’s entire face lit up. He looked so different from the man I met at the Haçienda a few weeks ago - younger, somehow. More reserved. I didn't know if I was imagining it or not. “I <em> love </em>Metal Guru. Do you like Patti Smith?” </p><p>I nodded and walked back to the front counter to put on <em> Easter</em>, one of her latest records, and felt Morrissey press up behind me, peering over my shoulder at the pile of records I had on the floor. “You want to take a look at what I have?” </p><p>"Of course."</p><p>We talked for a long while about anything and everything - though music was the most frequent point of discussion. Morrissey sat with his back against the wall, and I sat opposite him by the register. Our knees were pressed tightly together in such a cramped space. Our conversations trailed along with only the occasional group of teens coming in to rudely interrupt us. None of them had any actual money to spend and would barter with me instead, trading weed or shrooms for a trendy new jacket or some garish earrings - which I'd be able to easily sell to Andy's dealers later on. It was a great side hustle for me, and the whole reason I could afford my band's practice space in the first place. </p><p>As I was ringing up one of our few legitimate customers, I saw Morrissey (or Mozzer as I had been saying to his immense dissatisfaction) stand up to leave with the record I’d given him to listen to later was securely under his arm. I hoped I didn’t look as disappointed as I felt. “Gotta run?” </p><p>“Yes, I’ve work to do, but I’ll swing round again to vada your eek soon.” Morrissey paused to give an apologetic wave to the customer by the till, who was looking more irritable by the second. “Here’s my number. Call me in the mornings. Evenings are busy.”</p><p>I nodded and took the small note he'd scratched his number down on and walked out, glancing back at me with a warm smile. I already missed him. </p><p>/</p><p>“Look, mate. We’ve got to find a better singer. You’re just not going to cut it -- not if we’re gonna be doing covers like this.” Simon was slouched behind his drum set, looking upset as usual. “Can’t we do some stuff off <em> Raw Power</em>?” </p><p>What I wanted was to write cool riffs and chord progressions, but that didn’t seem to be enough to get a band off the ground, at least not outside of youth rallies and budget weddings. “We don’t really have time before the Ritz, and that kinda place isn’t looking for <em> Gimme Danger</em>.” </p><p>Simon sighed and tapped out a percussion line on the snare, lost in thought. “I don’t know, man. Have you auditioned anyone else?” </p><p>“No one else rang,” I said, knowing that’s not what he wanted to hear. “I’ll try and put another ad up in Crazy Face and Virgin, maybe.” </p><p>Andy sat down his bass and went to pick up one of the spare guitars, looking a little crestfallen that it was already out of tune. The humidity in the warehouse we practiced in was miserable, and there was never a time we weren’t having to change a warped string or something. “Maybe we should pass up the Ritz then - ” </p><p>“Just give me a little more time,” I said quickly, not wanting to contemplate that possibility yet. I shook a cigarette out after passing Andy my own acoustic in consolation. “I, uh...well, I met this guy --”</p><p>“I <em> knew </em>it!” Andy said with a laugh. “I saw you with that tarted up bloke at the bar. Didn’t take you for that kind of lad, Johnny.” </p><p>I rolled my eyes and v-fingered him with an unimpressed look, putting my elbow into it for emphasis. “Look, I’m just saying. He seems well in the know. I’ll talk with him.” </p><p>“Yeah, well. Maybe he can score us some toms for the afterparty. Not sure about him getting us a singer,” Andy said and strummed a bit of some Bowie song I vaguely recognized. </p><p>“What’re you on about?” I asked, not really interested in the undoubtedly stupid answer that was to come, but Andy just shrugged in response while Simon’s eyebrows lifted to his hairline. </p><p>“D’you mean Johnny’s been hanging out with a <em> rent boy</em>?” Simon said in a gratingly loud tone. “Our Johnny boy’s a <em> fag </em> now?”</p><p>I stared venomously at Simon, glancing towards Andy as he stifled a laugh. “He’s not a fuckin' prostitute!” I shouted, blinking back tears and stomping my cigarette out. “Fuck the both of you. Guess I’ll just have to find a new band <em> not </em> full of bigots.”</p><p>Snatching my guitar back from Andy, I stuffed it into the case and made my way out of the warehouse. My eyes frantically searched for a payphone as I headed back towards home, almost jogging right into traffic once I’d spotted one across the way. </p><p>I could barely fit myself inside the booth with my guitar, but for once being as small as I was had an upside. My pockets were so full of stupid shit I could barely find the note with Morrissey’s number, written in that strange blocky scrawl of his, and I desperately tossed empty chocolate wrappers and straw papers onto the ground in my haste. </p><p>Thankfully there was some extra change in the slot leftover from the last call so I would actually be able to have a conversation past what the lone ten pence in my jeans would allow for. Though the line rang for so long I thought I was out of luck anyways. “...Um, hellooo?” </p><p>“Hey,” I said as I sunk back against the side of the booth, the tightness in my chest finally loosening. “Sorry. It’s Johnny. I hope it’s not a bad time.” </p><p>“Oh! Bona to vada. I was just getting ready to go out. How’re you?” </p><p>The tears finally escaped, and I wiped at them in frustration. I hated myself for getting so upset. “Not having the best day. Where’re you heading?” </p><p>“Hm...just for a troll about the block. Not really feeling like I want to work the clubs tonight. What’s the matter?” </p><p>“Just --” I froze, wondering if I should even say what happened. “My mates are just being shitheads. I mentioned you might be able to help us find a singer, and…” I trailed off for a moment and stared at the cars driving by outside, sighing. </p><p>“Johnny?” Morrissey asked after a moment, and there was the familiar whistle of a kettle in the background. “You okay?”</p><p>“They...they called you a rent boy, and I told them to piss off. I can’t believe they’d say something like that, Mozzer. They don’t even <em> know </em> you.” </p><p>A loud laugh startled me, and I pulled at a loose thread on the hem of my shirt, puzzled. “Oh! Bijou omi! I <em> am </em>a rent boy. Not one they could afford though, I’m sure.” </p><p>“You’re…?” I felt my stomach twist nervously, not sure what to say. “I didn’t realize.” </p><p>There was another giggle followed by what sounded like Morrissey settling into a particularly old arm chair, given the sound of the springs. “Funny. Normally that’s the only thing people notice about me. At least when I’m working anyways. Otherwise I’m just my repellent looking self.” </p><p>My mouth moved before my brain could catch up to stop me. “Come off it. You’re beautiful, Mozzer. I...I saw you before we met that night at the Haçienda, you know? I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” and I managed to shut myself up before I sank into the ground in embarrassment. I didn’t want to reflect on the weeks I'd spent hoping to just run into him again.</p><p>“That’s kind of you to say, Johnny,” Morrissey said, voice soft. “Do you want to swing by my latty before I go out tonight?” </p><p>I gathered that he must have meant his apartment and nodded before I remembered to actually say something. My guitar would just have to make the journey with me as I didn’t want to bother going to drop it off at home, especially if Andy was there to try and apologize like he always was when he fucked something up. “Sure. Where’re you at?” </p><p>“Wilmslow Road, meet me by the campus. It’s the nearest bus, and we can walk back to mine.”</p><p>/</p><p>Morrissey’s flat was comfortably small. Two rooms with a closet sized loo that just barely fit a clawfoot bathtub. There was sheer material draped over the lamps that made the walls shimmer with bright flashes of color, making up for the lack of a window, and the overwhelming amount of paperbacks and old records lent the air the musty smell of an antique shop. “I’ll put the kettle on for us. Do you want to listen to anything?” </p><p>“Could I take a look?” I waited for Morrissey to nod before I walked over to the record player and picked through the vinyls stacked on the floor. I decided on <em> For Your Pleasure </em> after a bit of searching and tossed the vinyl of Jobriath out of the player to put on my selection instead, skipping to ‘<em>In Every Dream Home</em>.’ It seemed strangely appropriate. </p><p>Setting my guitar down in the adjacent corner, I settled onto the couch and watched Morrissey wander around the kitchenette. He was more dressed up than he’d been at X-Clothes the other day, this time in a nice jumper and fitted slacks with a belt pulled tight enough to almost give him a waistline. Brightly colored wooden beads clinked around his neck in an endless loop. “Milk?”</p><p>“Nah,” I said as I reached for my cigarettes and the ashtray on the coffee table. “Just black.” </p><p>“I love Roxy so much,” Morrissey said, almost more to himself than me, as he came over with the cups. “I’ve been listening to <em> Stranded </em> recently. <em>Street Life </em>is great.”</p><p>“Eddie Jobson is alright. I think I like Eno better, but I’ve warmed up to him.” I took a long drink of my tea. “When do you...uh, work?”</p><p>“Oh, anytime. There’s always some rough trade to be had in Manchester,” Morrissey said unaffectedly. “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>I stared at a water stain on the ceiling for a while, breathing out a long tendril of smoke. “How long...have you been in the, um...business?” </p><p>“Just a few years, really. It’s better than working at the Inland Revenue.” I considered this and nodded in agreement. That sounded awful. “I make good money and can write in my off time.” </p><p>“You write?” I asked, sitting up. “What do you write?” </p><p>Standing, Morrissey went into the other room and came out with a tattered A2 jotter. “Anything, everything.”</p><p>I flipped through the pages, amazed. That same blocky handwriting from my note filled every corner, every line, and ranged from manic to poetic. Entire passages from books and movies had been translated down with phrases circled, lyrics crammed into the margins. ‘<em>Does the mind rule the body, or does the body rule the mind? I don’t know.</em>’</p><p>“This is amazing,” I said, entirely unable to express just how true that felt. “God, and I love W.H. Auden -- seems you’ve good taste in everything, Mozzer.”</p><p>“Thank you, feele omi,” Morrissey replied, almost shyly, as he pulled the notebook back into his lap. “I don’t often share.”</p><p>Laughing, I leaned over to squeeze his arm encouragingly, my hand lingering probably too long. “Certainly don’t see why not. You’re fantastic. Guess you don’t also happen to be an incredible singer, huh?”</p><p>An unexpected blush went across Morrissey’s face, and I looked at him questioningly. “I...I do sing, sometimes. Mostly to myself. I had a friend, Billy Duffy, that I sang in a band with a while ago. Just a few times, before I got in the trade.”</p><p>“You knew Duffy? He’s in London now right?” I asked, getting up to get my guitar and turn the record off. “I should show you some of my stuff, too.” </p><p>A knock on the door threw me off, and I stared over my shoulder towards the noise, having forgotten an outside world existed. “Oh, pardon me. Some of my clients drop by for a house call now and then. I’ll be just a moment,” Morrissey said calmly, setting his tea on the coffee table. I nodded in understanding and sunk forlornly onto the couch. </p><p>Eavesdropping wasn’t my style exactly, but the door being only a few meters away left me with little choice in the matter. From where I was seated, I couldn’t actually see the unexpected visitor, but I could hear that their voice was deep and rough like a dockworker. “You ‘anging bitch, why weren’t you at the Rotters all last week? Took me days to find you.” </p><p>“No dinari, no trade, Ollie. You and your gang seem to think I’m a charity case, and I assure you I’m not. Now please see yourself off,” Morrissey said flatly. My heart hammered with a sudden fear, unsure how he could sound so calm.</p><p>The man aggressively pushed into the room, and I shrank back further into the couch, painfully aware that I’d not have a shot of defending myself against someone his size. “You bleedin’, snivelin’ whoreson. Private showin’s? What, his money better than ours?”</p><p>“You could start with <em> having </em> the money,” Morrissey drawled, arms crossed with an indifferent expression. “Now get out already.” </p><p>I watched on, petrified, as the man swung round and, with a single blow to the ribs, knocked Morrissey to the floor, kicking him hard enough that I could hear the crack of bone. “Get the hell off him!” My self-preservation seemed to take a backseat as I jumped up and bear hugged the man from behind, trying to topple him. “Fuck off, you mingin’ arsehole!” </p><p>Morrissey scrambled up and grabbed a particularly well framed photo of James Dean off the wall, viciously smashing it down on Ollie’s face. Blood and glass exploded in a fine mist around me, and I wondered if I was about to pass out from the adrenaline rush. “Don’t think this is over, bitch,” Ollie screamed as he shrugged me off with little effort. </p><p>I stumbled back into the coffee table and thankfully didn’t hit my head on anything too painful. The man stumbled out, clutching his bleeding face, and Morrissey slammed the door shut behind him, pulling the chain and deadbolt into place. “Holy fuck,” I whispered after a long moment of silence, still sprawled on the floor.</p><p>Climbing onto the couch, I watched as Morrissey picked up the photo of James Dean and brushed some glass off it despondently. “Dreadful. Just dreadful. This is one of my favorites.” My brow furrowed in confusion, wondering if I actually <em> had </em> fallen unconscious. “It’ll be ages before I find a good frame again.” </p><p>“What?” I asked, wiping specks of blood off my cheek. “What do you mean?” </p><p>Morrissey walked over on wavering legs, one arm wrapped around his midsection, and sat down next to me, showing me the picture -- it just seemed like a regular headshot. “This is one of my favorite portraits of him. I’d spent ages trying to decide the best frame for it and had found just the right one in a ginnel bin a few months back.”</p><p>“That’s, uh...pretty rough, but...are you okay Mozzer? Do you need anything?” I asked worriedly.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Morrissey said blithely, resting the photo on the coffee table next to the tipped over teacups. “Happens all the time, bijou omi. Just a bit of a bruising is all.” </p><p>“Is he really gonna come back here, you think?”</p><p>“Mm...it's doubtful. Those Rotters' lads would heckle him into an early grave if he said he got done up by a ‘Dilly boy.” </p><p>Not thinking, I reached to grab the hem of Morrissey’s jumper and pulled it up a bit. There was a deep red mark across his stomach, the start of an undoubtedly fierce bruise, and I hoped that the damage wasn’t worse than it looked. “Maybe some ice might help?” I offered. </p><p>“Mm, well I’ve no ice at the moment, but a bath would be lovely. Could you help me with that?” </p><p>Nodding, I made my way to the bathroom and ran the water as warm as I was able, deeply breathing in the steam to calm myself. With how small the room was, it felt like I was in a sauna.</p><p>I’d not noticed my hands were shaking, and I dipped them into the water to rinse away the last of the blood on me. Hearing footsteps, I glanced up only to immediately look back down at my feet. Morrissey was in nothing but a towel, which seemed to really be struggling to stay around his thin waist. “I’ll, uh -- leave you to it then. Maybe I can stop by tomorrow to make sure you’re okay?” </p><p>“Would you stay just a while longer?” Morrissey asked, and I affably shrugged, throat too tight with nerves to say anything. Without warning, he dropped his towel into my lap, and I watched as he unabashedly lowered himself into the tub.</p><p>“Um, sure. I’ve, uh...nowhere to be tonight. I was going to hang out with Andy and stuff, but --” I stood, towel clutched in front of my crotch, and shuffled over to sit on the edge of the toilet. Tightly crossing my legs, I made a point of staring at anything but the other man for a little while. “Don’t think I’m ready.” </p><p>“Well, they weren’t wrong about me,” Morrissey said, settling into the water. “You really can’t hold it against them, fortuni.” </p><p>“I know, but they were still arseholes about it,” I replied and finally let my eyes drift over in what I hoped was a casual way. Morrissey’s arms were resting on the edge of the tub, his head tilted back with his eyes shut, and I felt immensely grateful for the distorted blur of the water that hid everything below. “You were saying you sing though?” </p><p>Morrissey laughed and looked over at me with a small smile, and my jeans tightened considerably in response. “Oh, I suppose I do, but I’ve not even got to hear you play.” </p><p>“That’s true.” I paused to compose myself as Morrissey shifted to grab a washcloth off the towel bar, swathes of pale skin catching my eye. “Maybe you can come round to the warehouse sometime? That’s where we practice.” </p><p>“I’d be honored, Johnny,” Morrissey said with a charming smile. I tried to think of something else to say, but my eyes were now fixated on the way the other man was moving the washcloth across himself. I had hoped I wasn’t being obvious, but I soon realized Morrissey was looking at me with a cocked brow. “See something you like?”</p><p>“Uh, sorry,” I whispered, clearing my throat. “I’m not --”</p><p>“How old are you, feele omi?” Morrissey asked, sitting up in the tub. “18, hm?” </p><p>I nodded and wished my cigarettes weren’t in the other room. “Yeah, as of a few months ago --” My words died out in my throat as Morrissey pushed himself up on his knees, clutching one side of the tub while his other hand enticingly pushed the washcloth down his chest. “Mozzer, y-you don’t…”</p><p>I bit the inside of my cheek at the scintillating sight, near lightheaded with arousal, and tried to rocked myself subtly against the towel for some relief, glancing at his blissful expression, head thrown back with his eyes closed. </p><p>Sighing, Morrissey slid the washcloth down to languidly stroke himself a few times before his gaze met my own, smirking knowingly at me. His eyes were filled with enough immoral intent that I felt Iwas the one on display somehow.</p><p>He dragged his fingers back up to that blossoming bruise, lightly pushing at it, and precome splattered his stomach in response, cock twitching needily. “Let me see you, Johnny. Let me see how much you like to watch,” Morrissey murmured, hypnotically drawing his fingers around and around that deep red mark.</p><p>I dropped the towel and leaned back a little, letting my knees fall open. My arousal was more than evident, and I rubbed my palm across myself to ease the ache some. Morrissey’s gaze didn’t waver from me, and I found myself popping the button on my jeans and shoving my hand in, gasping as I brushed my fingers along my shaft. </p><p>“That’s it,” Morrissey said encouragingly and reached to touch himself, as well. I wouldn’t have been able to look away even if the building had been on fire. I grabbed at the nearby sink, hips bucking up with every fierce stroke of my hand, a damp spot rapidly building up in my jeans, and I felt a choked noise spill from me as Morrissey’s body trembled in pleasure, come shooting out in long archs. “<em>Johnny</em>.” </p><p>My head snapped back as my own climax followed and near cracked my skull on the porcelain “Holy <em>shit</em>, Moz.” I shakily pulled my hand out of my jeans after a few moments and wiped the mess off on my shirt, trying to remember how to breathe. </p><p>“Just a little thank you,” Morrissey said with a satisfied smile, sinking back into the water, eyes hooded and flirtatious. My cock twitched desperately, and I buttoned myself back up before I lost control again. “Now tell me about where I’m going to be meeting up with your band.” </p><p>/ </p><p>As expected, Andy showed up the next morning with weed and a long winded apology. We smoked for a few hours and talked about everything that had happened after I left practice that day (except the stuff Andy <em> definitely </em> didn’t need to know, up to and including me coming back home and jerking off two more times), enthusing about Morrissey being our possible new singer. “But what if he’s awful?” </p><p>“I can call Billy. He’d be able to tell us if he’s any good,” I replied, doubting I really needed to. “Least, I think I can find his number. I’m sure someone at Crazy Face would know it. Joe maybe?” </p><p>“Isn’t Billy signed on with a record label and everything now?” I nodded, explaining he’d joined a band called The Cult, as Andy picked up one of my guitars nearby. “This guy writes, too, yeah?” </p><p>I took another long hit and waved the smoke away. "Yeah. He’s incredible. I really feel good about this, Andy. I think something big is gonna happen to us soon.” </p><p>“You’ve been saying that since we were 12, man,” Andy mumbled and played a bit of a Stones song in a more down tempo, warming up his fingers. “Be cool if it works out though. First band with a rent boy as a lead singer.”</p><p>“It’ll definitely be our angle,” I joked, leaning against him. “That, and we’ll all be incredibly good looking.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure,” Andy said with an overly serious expression. “Seems one of us might appreciate that about our possible new singer than most.” </p><p>Rolling my eyes, I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my cheek against them, rolling the spliff idly between my fingers like I would sometimes practice with my pick. Just for the whole <em> cool </em>factor, not really for any practical purpose. “I guess. It’s more than that though. He’s really...I dunno. Like, a sort of kindred spirit. We had to meet, me and him. Predestined and all that.” </p><p>Andy wrinkled his nose and started to pluck out <em> Afternoon Delight </em> much to my chagrin. “You’re really into him, huh?” </p><p>I thought back to the weeks of walking bar to bar, hoping to find him. “Yeah, I guess so. Like Angie -- when she’d give me the time of day.” Andy took the joint from my fingers and nodded. “Telling me you’ve not ever felt that?” </p><p>“Only when I play guitar,” Andy said, smiling mischievously. “We’re gonna need to give Simon a head’s up though, about Morrissey.”</p><p>“Simon can fuck off.” I leaned back into Andy’s shoulder and let my eyes drift shut, listening to him strum a bit of<em> Heart of Gold</em>. “Mozzer is never gonna get along with a wanker like him.” </p><p>/ </p><p>A few days later, I phoned Morrissey to let him know my band would be practicing at the warehouse that afternoon. Morrissey said he had a client coming by shortly, and a few errands to run, but would do his best to stop by afterward. After telling me with great detail just what he’d be thinking about while he worked, I hung up and went to go splash myself with some cold water before I had to catch the bus.</p><p>Andy and I broke the news to Simon when we had all arrived, and, as expected, there was little enthusiasm on his part about the prospect of a rent boy being our singer. “I mean, we’re playing the Ritz. Guess it makes sense that we’d have a fag as our frontman.”</p><p>“Doesn’t make sense we’d have a cunt for a drummer though,” I snapped, irritated. I took a hard drag off my cigarette and pulled away from the hand Andy put on my shoulder. “Listen, he’s going to audition to be our singer whether you like it or not, and if you don’t, frankly, you can just get out.” </p><p>Simon shrugged and twirled a drumstick between his fingers. “Might just do. Guess I'll see how bad this audition goes first though. I’m sure it’ll be a riot.” </p><p>I turned and began to aggressively tune my guitar, near snapping a string. We had played about an hour, discordant and uncoordinated, when Morrissey showed up. He wore an oversized pink button down with a comfortable looking cardigan that had black hearts woven into it. The jeans were as baggy as the ones I’d seen him wearing before, maybe even the same pair, and his chosen accouterments were black framed glasses and a string of pearls hanging from his belt. “Bona to vada your dolly eek, Johnny. Sorry I’m so late in, I stopped by the bookstore and lost track of time.”  </p><p>“Hey, Mozzer. Come in. This is Andy, Simon,” I said, waving towards them. “You got your notes?”</p><p>Morrissey pulled a journal from his messenger bag, smiling. “Yeah. I got a few lyrics copied down.” </p><p>“Great. Here, let me get the mic set up for you.” I steadfastly ignored everyone else in the room as I went about it and gestured for Morrissey to sit on the stool I’d vacated, hoping Simon wouldn’t say anything. I was wrong to have thought such a miracle would even be possible. </p><p>“So you, what? Suck dick for a living?” Simon drawled, tapping his hightop. “That give you a better range or something?” </p><p>“Simon, hey,” Andy started, but Morrissey cut him off. </p><p>“I suppose the luxury of another human being’s touch <em> would </em> be unfathomable in your limited mind, but, yes, my mouth does stoke such fires of passion in others they pay me for the privilege of using it. Today, however, in a show of beneficence, I’m offering my time gratis, as Johnny’s a very charming and handsome fellow.”</p><p>I felt a little dizzy and stared blankly at the cable in my hand. Simon got up loudly from the drumkit behind me with an obnoxious scoff, throwing his drumsticks down. “Guess you’ll have to find another drummer then, won’t you? If you bother tossing this pretentious twat out feel free to give me a ring. I’ll come by to get my kit later.” </p><p>Waiting till I heard the door, I looked at Morrissey’s guileless expression and gave a nervous smile. “Handsome?” </p><p>“Very,” Morrissey deadpanned. “Ready?”</p><p>I nodded and stepped back to pull my guitar on. Andy looked distressed but went for his bass, pulling a pick out his pocket. “We’ll just follow along as you go,” I instructed. “Pick up the rhythm as you sing.” </p><p>Moments later my life was changed again. My hands felt clumsy and heavy on the strings as I tried to not stare at the enigmatic figure swaying in front of me -- a soft and melodic voice drifting out of the amps and filling my head with cacophonous thunder. “<em>If they dare touch a hair on your head, I’ll fight to the last breath</em>.” </p><p>I felt breathless as we finished up the session, and I couldn’t help but briefly squeeze Morrissey's hand in excitement, beyond thrilled. “That was incredible, Mozzer. You’re obviously in, but -- why would Billy not bring you along to London?” I got my guitar case closed up after I fumbled the locks a half dozen times, cursing all the while. “Guess it doesn’t matter, but wow. We lucked out, Andy.” </p><p>“Yeah, that was pretty great,” Andy commented, looking calm and collected but clearly just as excited. “Simon is missing out.”</p><p>“We’ll figure it out. A drummer is going to be way easier to find than a singer.” Morrissey was quiet but had a shy smile on his face, and I grabbed his elbow reassuringly. “Do you, uh...have to work more soon? You can come over to mine if you’d like.” </p><p>Morrissey shook his head and went to pull on his messenger bag. “No, I’ve a few spare hours left. I usually work late to hide from the rozzers.” </p><p>“What?” Andy asked, confusedly. “Rozzers?”</p><p>“It’s polari,” Morrissey explained. “The police, they’re the rozzers, the lilys. In trade work, you can’t let them overhear you.” </p><p>“Huh. That’s weird,” Andy said with a pensive expression. “Well, I’m heading back to my place. Call me whenever you want to hang again.” </p><p>“Don’t you want to come back to my place instead?” </p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Andy half-shouted, walking hurriedly to the door with his guitar and bass. “You two have at it. I’m good.” </p><p>“I can’t help but feel I’ve sewn some discord between you and your friends,” Morrissey said contemplatively as I finished putting everything away. “I apologize.” </p><p>“No need. Andy is my best mate, he’ll be fine, and I’ve this other friend? Andrew Berry? He’s sure to know someone who can help us out on the drums. We’ve an upcoming gig at the Ritz, and I know he can find us a replacement.” </p><p>Morrissey nodded and linked our arms companionably together as we walked home, making small talk about new records and concerts coming up at the Apollo. I mentioned that if Patti Smith came to Manchester again soon we'd have to go together.</p><p>I had forgotten my room was a disaster, but thankfully Morrissey didn’t seem to mind. “Sorry about the mess. I spend so little time here that I forget to clean up most days.” </p><p>“Where do you normally stay?” </p><p>“Andy’s place mostly. There’s a lot more room there to hang out, and I don’t have to worry that my guitar playing is keeping anybody up. The person who I rent from has a kid, so.” I cleaned off the bed and the small couch squashed against the wall, gesturing for Morrissey to sit as I went to shrug off my leather jacket and boots. “Didn’t want to take you over there though cause sometimes everyone at his place is off their mind on smack and stuff.” </p><p>I pulled out my cigarettes and my Gretsch acoustic before I sat down, scooting close to the other man. “Serenade me,” Morrissey crooned with a winning smile, and my fingers moved instinctively to strum the notes to <em>Reach Out </em>by The Four Tops, humming under my breath. “Oh, what a heartthrob you are, feele omi.” </p><p>We sat like that for hours, talking and laughing, and I hardly wanted to stop even when my fingertips began to ache. A glance outside at the dark sky made me finally put my guitar down, walking to the window to take in how late it was. There were hardly any cars out, and, not surprisingly, it seemed about to rain. “Not sure the buses are still running. Do you want to stay the night? I can sleep on the couch.” </p><p>“I’ve nothing to sleep in,” Morrissey replied, and I went to my dresser to pull out an old, stretched out David Bowie shirt and some flannel pajama bottoms. They were a pair that were too big on me, as was most everything, but they’d probably fit Morrissey well enough. </p><p>I pointed him towards the bathroom, letting him know to use my toothbrush if he wanted, and went to change into my own pajamas. There were no spare blankets in my room, but I lucked out and was able to find a few comforters to drag up with me from the downstairs closet. Once I got back, Morrissey was already sitting on the edge of my bed with his journal, scribbling intensely with a gnawed up pencil. Heat radiated through me at the sight of my shirt riding up a bit on him, exposing a small amount of lightly bruised skin. “You need a glass of water or anything?” I asked as I sat the blankets on the couch with a <em>woosh</em>. “Something to eat?” </p><p>“Nishta, dolly eek,” Morrissey said as he put his journal back into the bag near his feet. “But thank you.” </p><p>“Yeah, no problem,” I said, getting ready to lie down only to feel a strange prickling at the back of my neck. I glanced towards the bed only to see that Morrissey was still staring at me, brows drawn in. “Everything okay, Mozzer?” </p><p>“You can sleep here, Johnny. Beside me if you want,” Morrissey offered, tongue brushing along his bottom lip nervously. “You needn’t sleep alone unless you prefer it.” </p><p>“Well, I’ve spent all my money on drugs and booze and guitars, so. I hope that’s alright,” I joked, waiting for Morrissey to scoot back against the wall before I turned out the lights and climbed in beside him. </p><p>“Today was payment enough.” Morrissey pulled my arm tightly around his waist, and I worried I might hurt him, with his injuries still so recent, but my attempts to pull back were futile.  “I rarely have such good days.” </p><p>“I can’t wait for us to play at the Ritz. We’ll have to get some demos down.” Our faces brushed against one another, and I took in the rich scent of his skin, earthy and warm. “We’re gonna be the biggest band in Manchester, Mozzer.” </p><p>Morrissey’s eyes crinkled as he laughed, and I felt his fingers brush the back of my neck, gently pulling the tips of my hair. My body thrummed with anticipation. “Johnny, could I kiss you?” I nodded, throat too tight to speak. “Good, because I’ve been thinking about doing that all day.” </p><p>Our mouths met clumsily in the dark, noses bumping, before Morrissey pushed me back enough that we weren’t struggling with the angle. I grabbed hard at his shoulder as our lips continued to press chastely together in different, exciting ways, heady from the intensity. None of the girls I’d made out with before had turned me on like this.  </p><p>I moaned as Morrissey finally pushed his tongue between my lips and licked along the top of my palette with an expert precision. Shuddering, I felt my hips push up from the bed involuntarily, cock aching. “<em>Mozzer</em>. Mozzer, we’ve gotta stop.” I pulled away from his lips to try and breathe, but then Morrissey’s lips were at my neck, biting playfully. “I’m gonna...uh, I’m not gonna be able to...stop myself if we keep going, Mozzer.” </p><p>“Why stop then?” Morrissey murmured into my ear, sucking at the lobe. “I’m not asking you to pay me. I want this -- I want <em> you</em>, fortuni.” </p><p>I sighed and felt Morrisey’s hand rub gently along my stomach, pushing under my shirt to scrape his nails along my skin. Our lips met once again, and I let myself explore his mouth with my tongue, licking curiously at the small gaps between his teeth.</p><p>I eventually grabbed at the back of his neck and pulled him on top of me, rolling my hips to show what I wanted. With a small amount of difficulty, Morrissey got our pajamas mostly pushed out of the way, and I had to bite into the side of my hand to quiet myself as our cocks finally brushed against one another.</p><p>Smiling brazenly, Morrissey dragged his tongue across his palm a few times and reached down to encircle both of us, precome leaking generously out of me at the incredible sensation. I pushed my face into his shoulder to stifle a sob, near overwhelmed with pleasure. “Mozzer, fuck. I’m sorry. This is -- I can’t last a lot longer, I’m sorry.” </p><p>“It’s okay, bijou omi. Go ahead, come for me. Only for me.” I nodded and flung my arms around his shoulders, desperately fucking myself into his hand, shaking as our lengths dragged against one another. My body trembled as I began to come and soon realized Morrissey was doing the same -- the mess spilling onto my stomach far too much to have only been me. </p><p>Blinking the spots from my eyes, I watched as Morrissey ducked down to lick off the mess we’d made, shuddering at the touch of his tongue against me. “I think...I think I see why people would pay for that,” I said, laughing. “You’re incredible.” </p><p>Straightening our pajamas out, Morrissey rolled to lie next to me with a soft <em> thump</em>. “Another debt of yours I’ll need to collect on,” Morrissey mused. “How am I going to keep track?” </p><p>“Well, when we’re famous, on the <em>Top of the Pops</em>, I’m sure I’ll have enough put together then.” I pushed us closer together, resting my face against his chest. “We’re gonna go all the way, you and me. Straight to the top.” </p>
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